Unmasked- Act 1- Issue 11- This Inescapable Room
by Thedude2222
Summary: A Gotham novel detailing the end of the legend of Batman.


**Issue 11:**

This Inescapable Room

From inaction the nightmare returned.

The boy awoke to his mother on the side of his bed. She wore pearls and her hair was auburn with wide, thick curls. Outstretching her hand she brushed the hair from his eyes. They boy sighed and threw back the covers. Brushing his teeth he found her staring over his shoulder. She watched him don pants, a shirt, and shoes following him down the stairs toward the kitchen. His father sat at the table reading the paper. His mother took the chair next to him. She watched her son stare at the table as he waited on his cereal.

"Tennor's stock is down again," Thomas Wayne commented slowly turning a page, "Ernie better put some changes into place soon or he's going to have a stockholder's mutiny on his hands." Martha Wayne never took her eyes off her son.

"Bruce, I thought we could go to the park today," she coaxed, "We need to take some time off now and again." The boy said nothing only ate his cereal sternly while Alfred looked on in the background. After Alfred dropped him off at school he sat through lesson after boring lesson trying to concentrate. Most everyone at school gave up trying to talk to him the exception being a boy named Tommy. The entire day his mother and father stood behind his desk. On the rare occasion he answered a question Martha would clap her hands in delight and his father would exclaim with pride. He was fully aware no one else could see them. There is a certain bliss in the ignorance of madness, but Bruce endured the special torment of knowing he was crazy, living with it every waking hour. The horror of permanence permeated both the present and the future, to know no amount of medicine or distraction could ever cure this psychosis.

"I have to go on. I have to live my life but you never give me a moment's peace," he would scream at them after dinner. He would run into his mother's arms and sob uncontrollably. His father would kneel next to them wrapping both in his wide embrace. When the crying stopped Bruce would reach down and open his mother's jacket revealing the gunshot wounds still leaking blood under her cream colored dress.

"See?" he asked, "You're dead. You can't be here with me. I want you to more than anything but you're not." Martha held his hands in hers.

"Not even death can part us not fully at least. We'll be here with you forever. That's the blessing of family," his mother promised. Bruce looked up into the wishful eyes of Thomas then to the blackened bullet hole in his forehead.

"And the curse," his father added.

Sweat soaked in a luxurious bed Bruce jolted awake without a sound caught somewhere between his mother's eternal love and his father's unbearable grip. This recurring nightmare haunted him for years as a boy and since he refused to talk about it the doctors remained at a loss. It seemed to recede as Bruce began studying the colorful crime of Gotham. He still remembered the night after his first patrol. Despite the sprains and bruises no one had ever slept so peacefully. He knew deep down if he ever stopped the nightmare would return and here it was again.

With no memory of how he got there, Bruce sat up in the dimly lit room and surveyed his surroundings. The room was well furnished with handmade furniture and beautiful art on the wall. He tried the door only to find it reinforced as were the jams. The lock revealed a militaristic design that could only be opened from the outside. A lone window composed of bulletproof plastic boasted no view leaving him to assume it had been purposefully blacked out. The ventilation system sported openings only a few inches wide around the room. A bathroom off the main room housed a sink, a shower, and a toilet. On the desk were a few books he ignored. Bruce also noticed a chin-up bar emerging from the stucco ceiling.

Two hours after he woke a slot opened in the wall and a dumb waiter lowered food and water down to him. The opening itself measured maybe nine inches across and quickly closed once he removed the tray. The meal consisted of grilled chicken in a honey glaze, roasted tomatoes and red potatoes with basil, and sweet corn on the cob. Methodically he tasted the dishes one by one waiting ten minutes between samples. When somewhat confident of no ill effects he ate the rest marveling at the taste despite its now room temperature. The meal was as good as something Alfred would create. After dinner he approached the TV inset into the wall covered by the same plastic as the window. When he touched the screen it lit up showing a beautiful woman carrying a microphone and a concerned face.

"-reports around the city of protests and demonstrations after Gotham's mayor declared martial law earlier this morning. Our sources inside the mayor's office as well as the GCPD indicate law enforcement duties will be turned over to a private security firm called SECURE. What this will mean for the citizens of Gotham remains to be seen. A press conference with Commissioner Gordon has been scheduled for eight o'clock this evening.

Now with some varying opinions on the matter we turn first to Dr. Skylark Airhart, a resident professor of social sciences and behavior at Gotham University." The still shot of Vicky Vale was replaced by a thin, sullen man in a tweed jacket and yellow bowtie. His prerecorded interview began with him sitting behind an expensive, cherry wood desk.

"I think first we need to examine the actions of these individuals and ask why they resort to the kind of extreme behavior that cause the government to initiate such a fascist crackdown. There's no question a strong hand will force these women and men into further acts of violence and debauchery. Personally I believe we need to look back on the attempts to rehabilitate these lost souls. Instead of locking up a man like the Joker I would hug him and tell him he's loved," the doctor explained smugly. The screen changed back to Vicky.

"For an alternate view we turn to our newest reporter, Dwayne Greathouse who comes to us live with resident and local businessman Roman Sionis, better known by the moniker Black Mask. Dwayne?"

"Thanks Vicky. I'm here with Mr. Sionis who has an interesting take on the recent declaration of martial law in Gotham," Dwayne said pulling on his collar. Roman stood next to him staring at his phone. He grabbed the microphone from the young, black man and pointed into the camera.

"They're taking this city over and nobody has anything to say about it. We let the left wing media write the narrative, and if you disagree you're a bigot, a sexist, or a homophobe. They want to turn this city into the next communist stronghold. That's why I moved my money into gold. In a month Gotham will be bartering with precious metals and chickens. The moral degradation in this country sickens me. It's why I vote Republican. Pretty soon the secret police will come knocking at your door," Roman ranted poking the nervous reporter in the chest. Reaching in his jacket he drew a nickel plated handgun and put it to the man's head. Dwayne looked into the camera horrified.

"Who's gonna save you when they come for you? GCPD, the state troopers, the federalis? They're all turds expelled by the same *BEEP*hole. That's why every honest American should arm themselves. Responsible gun ownership makes every citizen safer," he explained as the sweat beaded down the reporter's face. The feed cut back to Vicky who held a hand up to her earpiece.

"It seems we're having some technical difficulties with our feed. Please stay tuned for our twenty-four hour coverage of Gotham's Lockdown. Coming up we'll get comments from ex-mayor Loeb currently serving a twenty year sentence in Black Gate Penitentiary." Bruce watched the coverage for five hours without moving. When the dumb waiter descended again he ignored it. After a few minutes it closed again and raised the untouched food. He stood up then and began using the chin-up bar. For three hours he exercised eventually moving on to meditation. Without warning the blackened window lit up.

A single beam of light shone down on the masked face of Scarecrow, Dr. Jonathon Crane. The rest of the room remained black. Light and airy a woman's voice rang out from the darkness.

"Let's go over this one more time, Jon. Tell me how you feel about the things you've done."

"I've been a sham of a doctor peddling pseudoscience while breaking every ethical responsibility I've ever had. The medicine I take now helps me see through these delusions. It hurts me to think of all the people along the way I-" Jon's even toned voice shook and caught in his throat, "I'm a dealer of death and fear, for what? Because I'm suffering from a mental defect? There's no amount of words to express how wrong I've been and nothing can take any of it back." Swiftly someone pulled the mask off him from behind. Authentic tears rolled down his scared, skinny face. More surprisingly Bruce heard true regret in his now wavering words.

"How did you become a doctor, Jon?" the woman asked. He took a deep breath then answered immediately.

"My father. Among his colleagues he was a great man, dedicated to a fault. I was homeschooled before I could talk by him and my mother. She was a talented nurse in her own right but he was never the type of man to suffer a woman in medical school. As a boy I loved to read especially fiction using it as a springboard to escape my environment. Frank L. Baum remained my favorite well into adulthood. However the scarecrow in the book unnerved me more than the monkeys or the witch."

"Why did he scare you?"

"Originally I assumed it was due to a lack of bones. Even at that young age I had a basic understanding of anatomy. Upon further reflection I realized it was his ignorance. My father wasn't a man who tolerated ignorance, and his wrath could shake the foundations of our home."

"Is that what you were escaping with the stories?"

"Yes, the lessons, the fire. When I would get an answer wrong in my studies I could expect the everyday corporal punishment like beatings or a hungry night in the cellar. On the rare occasion I'd answer more than one wrong, he would turn on the stove until the heating coil was red hot. He'd pick me up and force me down on it for as long as he felt appropriate. I can't count how many lessons we did standing up."  
"What would you think when he sat you on the fire?"

"I thought- I would think-" Jon sat straighter as he unwittingly stared into Bruce's eyes, "If I only had a brain he wouldn't hurt me."

"What would he do if you missed three questions?"

"Probably kill me, I don't know. I never missed that many." The fluorescent lights flooded the room revealing Jon strapped to a tall chair. Below and around it a copious amount of firewood and kindling was piled. A woman stood next to him covered head to toe in black with a veil over her face. She reached out with a gloved hand extending a small branch to intersect his line of sight. His head strapped against the back of the chair forced him to look above eye level.

"Do you know what this is, Jon?" she whispered.

"It's a twig presumably from the branch of a tree," he responded.

"Incorrect. This is 7 year old Anna Lee Godwin who succumbed to your fear gas and asphyxiated due to an already concerning case of asthma. Can you tell me how many people you killed or damaged over the years?"

"Yes of course, one hundred and eighty-three."  
"Incorrect. It's one hundred and eighty-four."

"That's impossible! I even counted the Batman," Jon protested.

"Did you count the man behind the mask?" she inquired quietly.

"There is no man! Maybe before there was a man and a reason, but now he's just legend painted large across the sky!"

"You're wrong, Jon. He's very much a man and like every man he has a price…a price and a breaking point. You see I know something about the tendencies of men. Yes, we know what makes the Scarecrow weep, one hundred and eighty-four souls burning him into oblivion a log or stick for each." She released the strap around his head and when Jon saw the wood he began twisting and whining in wide eyed panic.

"You said you'd let me go," he bargained as she poured accelerant around his seat.

"We are letting you go, all of it. Don't worry though, you'll have plenty of company in no time," she explained striking the match. This brought Bruce out of his daze at Crane's hypnotic honesty. Brutally he slammed into the glass which refused to even register the force. The flames ripped out around Jon as the room quickly filled with black smoke. Both men screamed out.

"NO, NO!" they cried in unison. From Jon's point of view through thick acrid clouds and rising flames he very clearly saw a man he knew standing in the corner.

"Edward!" he exclaimed, "Please help me!" The fire slipped around his ankles. His friend and sometimes partner Edward Nigma stood before him as clear as day. He leaned on his cane and tipped his top hat.

"The loftiest of cedars I can eat," Edward began, "Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I. I storm whenever you give me meat; whenever you give me drink I die." Edward picked up his cane and took a bow.

"It's time to give it up, Jon. We couldn't expect it to last forever. I think we had fun; in fact I'm sure we did. Anyway I'll see you real soon buddy." Edward vanished behind a cloud. From the ceiling factory grade exhaust fans kicked on pulling the smoke out through the top. Somewhere Bruce couldn't see vents must have pumped oxygen into the room because in a space of seconds the flames rose over Jon's head fully consuming him. Bruce watched until his body turned to a blackened husk. Eventually the fire went out with the lights. He returned to searching the room inch by inch. Sometime later he heard a knock on the door and someone entered, before him stood a stunning Selina Kyle in a strapless, green dress. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in soft, tight curls.

"May I come in?" she asked but Bruce just stood in the corner staring at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, "First of all I should explain you've been held in stasis for the past thirty days. We weren't about to give you a month to find your way out of this room."

So there is a way out, Bruce thought when she paused.

"Of course there's a way out," she said seemingly in response to his inner voice, "But by the time you find it, it may be too late. When you do find it I know you won't like it. It's a rare thing to get everything you want in life. If I had my choice we'd be in some isolated paradise with all the money in the world and not a care on our minds.

I love you Bruce. I have since the first time you caught me in the act. That's the only reason we did any of this. This isn't about conquering the world or driving you insane. This is about helping you, saving you and not from a prison cell in Apokolips or a kiss from Ivy. Your story is so confusing I'd imagine even you couldn't keep it straight if I didn't know you. There are so many people in the world who love you but can't see how tortured you truly are. In their own unconscious way they don't want you to get better because they're scared of who you might become. Those of us not beholden to the legend want to see you mature and heal. We feel that you more than anyone deserve a happy ending to this unending battle and damn the rest of them. So we took away everyone who could say no. Now it's just you versus the truth.

However as much as we care, we don't approve of certain methods you employ namely the use of children. Your wonder boy Dick Grayson turned into a fine man despite the horrors you expected him to overcome. On the other side of that coin we have Jason Todd, a boy that no amount of discipline could tame. What they did to him was unspeakable and unforgiveable still you wouldn't stop. You brought on Tim and now your own flesh and blood son. Yet with all the pain and the trial you faced you still can't see they only became parts of you. The choice you offer is no choice at all. What child grows up with Batman and doesn't want to become him? And you pretend not to see it except you approve and they see that too.

These wheels were set into motion a long time ago. Deep down you knew someday it had to change. Please just say something even to tell me I'm wrong. Tell me somewhere in all of that there isn't some kernel of truth," Selina grew desperate and agitated now. Bruce looked at her with lips parted and she was sure he would speak. Instead he closed himself off and turned to examine the corner of the room again.

"You don't have to worry anymore, Bruce. You can let go now because the good guys are here. We're going to fix you…whether you like it or not." She stopped at the door with her back to him.

"Enjoy your night, detective."


End file.
